Phew, I finally got past the spirit medium...
Klein let out a breath of stale air and slowly turned around. Enjoying the stillness of the night and the pleasantly cool breeze, he strolled toward the apartment entrance.
He took out his key, inserted it, and gently turned it, letting the crimson-streaked darkness widen with a creak.
Walking up the deserted stairs and breathing the chilly air, Klein inexplicably had the wonderful feeling that he had lived a few more hours than everyone else, making even his steps lighter.
Click. Still in much the same mood, he unlocked his front door. But before he could step inside, he saw a figure sitting quietly in the darkness before the desk, her black hair bathed in crimson, her brown eyes bright, and her features delicate. It was none other than Melissa Moretti!
"Klein, where did you go?" Melissa's brows relaxed as she asked in puzzlement.
Before Klein could answer, she added another sentence, seemingly determined to make the circumstances and their logical connections perfectly clear. "I got up to use the bathroom just now and found you weren't home."
Klein had plenty of experience deceiving parents. His mind whirred, and he answered calmly with a wry smile:
"I woke up and had some trouble getting back to sleep. I figured I might as well exercise instead of wasting time, so I went out for a few laps. Look, I'm covered in sweat."
He took off his coat, half turned, and pointed at his back.
Melissa stood up, glanced at it without much concern, and considered her words for a few seconds.
"Klein, you really don't need to-you don't need to put so much pressure on yourself. You'll definitely pass Tingen University's interview. Even if you don't, um, I mean if, you can still find something better."
I haven't even been thinking about the interview... Klein nodded.
"I understand."
He did not mention that he had already received an "offer," because he had yet to decide whether to accept it.
Melissa gave him a long look, then suddenly turned and jogged into the inner room. She brought out a turtle-shaped object cobbled together from gears, rusty iron, springs, and clockwork.
Quickly winding it up, Melissa placed the object on the desk.
Click, click, click. Tap, tap, tap. The "turtle" hopped and walked with a distinct rhythm, involuntarily drawing one's attention to it.
"When you're troubled, watching it move like this makes you feel much better. I've been doing it a lot lately. It really works! Klein, give it a try," Melissa invited, her eyes bright.
Klein did not turn down his sister's kindness. He leaned closer to watch the "turtle," waiting until it stopped before smiling.
"Simplicity and regularity really can be relaxing."
Before Melissa could say anything else, he pointed at the "turtle" and asked casually:
"Did you make this yourself? When? How come I didn't know?"
"I made it from materials the school didn't want and things I picked up on the street. I only finished it two days ago." Melissa's expression remained unchanged, but the corners of her mouth rose a little.
"That's impressive," Klein praised sincerely.
As a boy with poor mechanical skills, even assembling a four-wheel-drive toy car had been an ordeal for him as a child.
Melissa raised her chin slightly, her eyes curving a little as she replied in an even tone:
"It's nothing, really."
"Excessive modesty is a bad trait." Klein chuckled. "It's a turtle, right?"
The atmosphere in the room suddenly grew heavy, and Melissa's voice sounded faintly, like a veil of crimson gauze:
"It's a Puppet."
A Puppet...
...Klein gave an awkward smile and forced an explanation:
"It's the materials. They're still too crude."
Immediately afterward, he changed the subject:
"Why did you go to the bathroom in the middle of the night? There's a chamber pot in here, isn't there? And aren't you good at sleeping straight through till morning?"
Melissa froze. Several seconds passed before she opened her mouth to explain.
Just then, a loud series of digestive gurgles came from her abdomen.
"I-I'm going back to sleep!"
Bang! She snatched up the turtle-shaped "Puppet," jogged back into the inner room, and shut the door.
...Last night's dinner was too good, and she ate too much. Her stomach couldn't handle it... Klein shook his head with a quiet laugh and slowly walked over to the desk. He sat down silently, and in the light of the crimson moon emerging from behind the dark clouds, began quietly considering Dunn Smith's invitation.
The disadvantages of becoming a civilian employee of the Nighthawks were obvious:
As a transmigrator and "The Fool," the initiator of the mysterious gathering, he had quite a few secrets. Constantly hanging around under the noses of the Church of the Evernight Goddess's team specializing in supernatural incidents posed considerable risks;
Once he joined Dunn Smith and the others, his goal would definitely be to become a Beyonder, using that to conceal the benefits he gained from the "gathering." Becoming a full member would inevitably restrict his freedom. Just as civilian employees had to report any departure from Tingen, he would not be able to go wherever he wanted or do whatever he liked, and would miss many opportunities;
The Nighthawks were a tightly organized group. Whenever a mission arose, he could only wait for assignments and accept orders, with no right to refuse;
Beyonders risked losing control;
After listing the disadvantages one by one in his mind, Klein turned to the necessity and the benefits:
Judging from his experiences with the "luck enhancement ritual" and other matters, he would not be among the lucky eighty percent Dunn had mentioned. Strange incidents full of danger were bound to befall him afterward. Only by becoming a Beyonder or joining the Nighthawks would he have the ability to stand against them;
If he wanted to become a Beyonder, relying solely on the "gathering" would not work. Potion formulas were not much of a problem, but he faced serious obstacles concerning where to find the corresponding ingredients, how to obtain them, how to concoct the potions, and basic knowledge of a Beyonder's daily practice. He could not ask Justice and The Hanged Man about everything or trade with them for every item. Not only would that damage The Fool's image and make them suspicious, but there was also not enough time to discuss such detailed questions. Likewise, he had nothing to offer that would interest them;
Furthermore, more exchanges of physical goods would leave traces of his real identity. If an "online dispute" turned into an "offline conflict," he would be in serious trouble;
By joining the Nighthawks, however, he would certainly gain access to basic knowledge of the mystical world and relevant channels, accumulating enough corresponding contacts. Only with that as his fulcrum could he leverage the "gathering" and gain the greatest benefits from Justice and The Hanged Man. In turn, this would improve his real-world circumstances and provide more resources, creating a virtuous cycle;
Of course, he could also seek out and join an organization like the Psychology Alchemists Dunn had mentioned, which the various churches suppressed and hunted down. But becoming one of them would similarly cost him his freedom, and he might even have to live in constant fear. More importantly, he had no idea where to find them. Even if he coaxed the relevant information out of The Hanged Man, approaching them rashly would put his life at risk;
Becoming a civilian employee would still give him a buffer and a chance to withdraw;
A lesser hermit hid in the wilderness, a middling hermit in the city, and a great hermit at court. His identity as a Nighthawk might provide better camouflage;
When he became a high-ranking member of the tribunal in the future, who would imagine that he was a heretic, the mastermind behind a secret organization?
Dawn shone, and the crimson faded. Looking at the gold on the horizon, Klein made his decision.
He would find Dunn Smith today and become a civilian employee of the Nighthawks!
"You didn't sleep?" Just then, Melissa got up again and opened the door, only to see her brother stretching without any concern for appearances.
"I was thinking about a few things." Klein smiled, feeling completely at ease.
Melissa thought for a moment and said:
"When something troubles me, I list the good and bad points one by one. Once I finish, I compare them, and that gives me a 'hint' about what I should do."
"A good habit. That's what I do too," Klein replied with a smile.
Melissa's expression relaxed. Without saying anything more, she took a large sheet of yellowed paper and her toiletries to the communal bathroom.
After breakfast, once his sister had left, Klein did not rush out. In a good mood, he caught up on some sleep, because as far as he knew, almost all taverns were closed in the morning.
At two in the afternoon, he used a small brush and a handkerchief to smooth the creases in his top hat and remove the dirt, restoring its neat appearance. Then he went out in formal attire, as though heading to an interview.
Besik Street was some distance away. Afraid of missing the Nighthawks' "working hours," Klein did not walk there, but waited for a public carriage at the entrance to Iron Cross Street.
In the Kingdom of Loen, there were two kinds of public carriages: trackless and tracked. The former were drawn by two horses and seated around twenty people, including those on the roof. They followed only a general route, with no fixed stops, operating flexibly and stopping whenever hailed unless they were full.
The latter were operated by the Rail Carriage Company, which first laid rail-like installations along the main streets. The horses walked on the inside while the wheels rolled along the tracks, making the carriages easier to pull and saving effort. This allowed the horses to draw larger double-decker carriages carrying nearly fifty passengers. The only drawback was that their routes and stops were fixed, leaving many places inaccessible and making the service rather inflexible.
Ten or so minutes later, the sound of wheels striking tracks approached from the distance, and a double-decker carriage stopped at the Iron Cross Street stop.
"To Besik Street," Klein told the driver.
"You'll have to change at Champagne Street. But once you're there, it's only about a ten-minute walk to Besik Street," the driver explained the route.
"Champagne Street, then." Klein nodded in agreement.
"That's over four kilometers. Four pence." A fair-faced young man beside the driver held out his hand.
He was the employee responsible for collecting fares.
"All right." Klein took four copper pennies from his pocket and handed them over.
He boarded the carriage and found that there were not many passengers. Even the lower deck still had several empty seats.
I only have three pence left. I'll have to walk back... Klein adjusted his hat and settled into his seat.
Most of the men and women on this deck sat upright in formal attire. Some wore work clothes, while others leisurely read newspapers, but hardly anyone spoke. It was very quiet.
Klein closed his eyes to rest, paying no attention to the passengers coming and going around him.
Stop after stop passed before he finally heard the words "Champagne Street."
He got off the carriage and asked for directions along the way, soon arriving at Besik Street, where he saw a tavern bearing a painted sign of a brownish-yellow hound.
Klein extended his right hand and pushed hard. The heavy door slowly opened, and a rush of noise and restless heat surged out.
Although it was still afternoon, the tavern already had quite a few patrons. Some were casual laborers looking for opportunities and waiting to be hired, while others had nothing to do and numbed themselves with alcohol.
The tavern was rather dim inside. Two large iron cages stood in the center, their lower thirds sunk into the ground without any gaps. People gathered around them holding wooden mugs, sometimes discussing loudly, sometimes cursing and laughing.
Klein glanced over curiously and discovered two dogs confined inside. One was black and white, resembling a husky from Earth, while the other was entirely black, with sleek, glossy fur and a strong, fierce build.
"Want to place a bet? Doug's won eight straight matches lately!" A short man in a brown soft cap approached and pointed at the black dog.
Place a bet? Klein was taken aback at first, then understood:
"Dogfighting?"
Back at Hoy University, those aristocratic students and children of wealthy families would always ask him with scornful curiosity whether crude workers and unemployed thugs liked taking part in boxing and gambling in taverns, and whether, besides boxing and cards, the gambling also included cruel, bloody activities such as cockfighting and dogfighting.
The short man scoffed:
"Sir, we're civilized people. We don't do anything so unseemly."
At that, he muttered quietly, "Besides, they passed a law banning those things last year..."
"Then what are you betting on?" Klein was momentarily curious.
"Which one's the better 'hunter.'" The short man had barely finished speaking when a commotion broke out in the center.
He turned to look, then waved excitedly:
"This round's started. No more bets. Wait for the next one."
Hearing that, Klein stood on tiptoe, raised his head, and peered over. He saw two burly men each dragging a burlap sack over to the iron cages. They opened the "cell doors" and tipped the contents inside.
They were gray, disgusting animals!
Klein looked closely and discovered they were rats-dozens upon dozens of rats!
Because the bottoms of the iron cages extended underground without any gaps, the rats scurried everywhere but could not escape.
At that moment, as the cage doors closed, the two dogs' chains were unfastened.
"Woof!" The black dog lunged forward and killed a rat with a single bite.
The black-and-white dog first looked utterly bewildered, then began playing excitedly with the rats.
The people around them either held their mugs and watched intently or shouted:
"Bite it to death! Kill it!"
"Doug! Doug!"
...Fucking dogs catching rats... Klein understood, the corners of his mouth twitching incessantly.
The gambling here actually involved betting on which dog would catch more rats...
Perhaps they could even bet on the exact number...
No wonder people on Iron Cross Street were always buying live rats...
It really was distinctive...
Klein shook his head and backed away in amusement. Skirting the tightly packed drinkers, he reached the bar.
"New face?" The bartender looked up at him while wiping a glass. "Rye beer's a penny a mug, Enmat beer's two pence, and Southville beer's four pence. Or would you like a glass of all-malt Lanti?"
"I'm looking for Mr. Wright," Klein said directly.
The bartender whistled and called to the side:
"Old man, someone's here for you."
"Hmm, who..." A muffled voice sounded, and a drunken old man stood up behind the bar.
He rubbed his eyes and looked at Klein.
"You looking for me, lad?"
"Mr. Wright, I'd like to hire a mercenary squad for a mission," Klein answered according to Dunn's instructions.
"A mercenary squad? Are you living in an adventure story? Those haven't existed for ages!" the bartender interrupted with a laugh.
Wright fell silent for a few seconds before saying:
"Who told you to come looking here?"
"Dunn. Dunn Smith," Klein answered truthfully.
Wright immediately chuckled:
"I see. Actually... mercenary squads still exist. They've just changed their form and taken names better suited to modern society. You can find one on the second floor of 36 Zouteland Street."
"Thank you." Klein thanked him sincerely, then turned and squeezed his way out of the bar.
Just before he left, the drinkers gathered together suddenly fell silent, leaving only murmurs:
"Doug actually lost..."
"Lost..."
Klein shook his head in amusement and left briskly, asking directions to nearby Zouteland Street.
"Thirty, thirty-two, thirty-four... here." Counting the door numbers, he entered the stairwell.
Rounding the corner and climbing the steps, he saw a vertical signboard and the present-day name of the so-called mercenary squad:
"Blackthorn Security Company."